


Mountains Don't Move

by RunTheJewels



Series: Bane of Legends [3]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Gibby only laughs twice in this fic so you know he's going through it, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25299187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunTheJewels/pseuds/RunTheJewels
Summary: When he joined these games, he was touted as the mountain, mainly by himself. The shield between his team and those who would harm them. The hero. The savior. You don’t get far as a savior if you’re the one they constantly have to worry about. You won’t do well as a shield if the people behind you fear that the slightest blow will have you crumbling to pieces, like he was doing now.
Relationships: Makoa Gibraltar/Makoa Gibraltar's Boyfriend
Series: Bane of Legends [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535969
Kudos: 9





	Mountains Don't Move

Makoa pressed himself, forehead first, against the door, moving with it when it slid open for him and very nearly allowing himself to collapse inside. Instead of doing so, he simply trudged forward and let the door close behind him.

His pack is tossed down into a corner with more force than necessary. Just as irritably, Makoa pulled the band from his hair and let the black strands fall down the sides of his face. The sensors of the room detect his movement and the lights slowly began to come on. Quicker and again, with more force than was necessary, Makoa slapped switch off, leaving him in darkness again. With a groan, he dropped onto the bed, burying his face in his hands.

Terrible day. It had been a terrible day. Everyone has terrible days. But other people had reasons. More often than not, _he_ had reasons. Sometimes, they were little ones. Little things going wrong in quick succession. Other times, they weren’t so little. An argument with someone he cared about that bit bone-deep. A life he wasn’t able to save.

Nothing like that today. Today was just routine training for the games. He ran. He shot things. He ran some more. He was the thing that got shot. He was perfectly into it, physically, if not mentally. It had worn him down something fierce and by the end, he was ready to tear someone’s head off. He never would, of course. He’d never forgive himself if he did but damn, if he wasn’t ready to.

A shower was what he needed next. Maybe it would help, maybe it wouldn’t. The problem with days like these was that the lack of cause left him with a lack of solutions. Hunger wasn’t the problem, so eating wouldn’t serve as a solution. Lack of sleep wasn’t the problem so turning in early would probably do nothing. But it could help.

Makoa peeled the sweat-damp shirt off of his torso as well as his pants, leaving both in a pile on the floor for him to trip over later. He stepped into the bathroom he had to himself, leaving the lights off there as well and felt his way towards the shower. He stepped inside and pulled the curtain close after him, twisting the knob until the steam filled his eyes and the temperature was nearly scalding.

He scrubbed off the sweat and grime quickly but stayed under the burning water for a long time. His mind was still running through the day but not to find a cause. Finding a cause was proving to be pointless. Now the best he could do was prepare for tomorrow, mainly regarding what he was going to need to fix because of today.

He’d have to apologize to Nat and Elliott. He had promised to meet them after training but reneged, claiming exhaustion. His hands pressed against the wet tiles before him and he could feel his shoulders and neck tensing up. He blew them off because he was in a pissy mood. No other reason. Then there was Ajay, who he also blew off but only when she had asked him was wrong. But with her, he wasn’t nearly as nice about it. She’d forgive him, apology or no. She was a good friend. She understood. She worried.

And he _hated_ it. Especially here, especially now. When he joined these games, he was touted as the mountain, mainly by himself. The shield between his team and those who would harm them. The hero. The savior. You don’t get far as a savior if you’re the one they constantly have to worry about. You won’t do well as a shield if the people behind you fear that the slightest blow will have you crumbling to pieces, like he was doing now. He hated the thought of people worrying for him. He hated the thought of people burdening themselves with him and his problems. Makoa swallowed the lump of anger welling uncomfortably in his throat, accompanied by sadness and fear. More than anything, he hated the thought of people risking themselves for him. Always in battle, after being revived or resurrected, he was noted to be quieter. Nothing soured him more than having to be saved. He was no one’s concern. He didn’t want to be.

_Head throbbing. Throbbing so deeply, he could feel it behind his eyes. Stinging in his ankle, where the motorcycle had twisted and fallen. Mud and dirt cloud his vision. Strong, familiar hands are slotted beneath his arms, pulling him out from where he was trapped._

_A thunderous boom. Then rumbling, not in his head. Rushing, shouting, screaming and blackness. A different set of hands now as the light returns, smaller but just as familiar. And in front of him, a figure, surrounded by others while he was being pulled away. They haven’t wiped his eyes and his arms refused to obey when he tried to do it himself. But he recognizes the figure. Even in his rattled haze and his near blindness, Makoa knows who this person is._

_His arm. His arm. Why...why is it like that? It shouldn’t be...I need to get to him. I need to help him. There’s red. So much red; on his clothes, growing on the ground beneath him. Why was there so much red? Why…_

_Why wasn’t he moving?_

The water shuts off, the sensors assuming he had fallen asleep. Far from it; Makoa has his head against the already cooling tile, his arms at his sides, balled into fists and trembling. Stiffly, he raises one of them to wipe the wetness from his eye. Then the other to wipe more and more, overflowing and spilling down.

He forced his hands to open, his shoulders to relax, his breathing to slow and deepen. He’s here. He’s okay, Makoa reminds himself. He was okay. Pa was okay. Pa wasn’t dead.

_I didn’t kill him._

Makoa’s skin is tight and pruned when he steps out and reaches for a towel. He’s slow in drying off and redressing but quick to slide face-first into bed as soon he was done.

After a few minutes, he lifted his head and took his phone up from the nightstand. He opened it, selected the appropriate contact, dialed and then cancelled. He opened it, selected the contact, dialed and then cancelled it again.

His other hand came up to rub at his stinging eyes. He was being ridiculous.

This time, he started the call and let it go through, his heart thudding in his head. It was picked on the second ring. Rustling could be heard and Makoa pulled the phone back to check the time. It was getting dark over here on Talos but would still be late morning back home, though it wouldn’t surprise him if Marek was just now rolling out of bed.

Silence followed for a few seconds, then a voice rang out, “Big Mak, my man!”

Makoa coughed, the suddenness of it leaving him choking on air and surprise. When he recovers, he greets him. “How are you, Marek?” He asks, his voice barely rising above a raspy whisper.

“I’m awake so...not good. But one of my friends owed me a favor, so I’ve got a free lunch to look forward to,” he tells him. Then he says, “Been a while since I’ve seen you. They must be keeping you busy over there.”

The small smile that Makoa had growing began to fall. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Something wrong?” Marek asks. Makoa denies before he can finish and grimaces, knowing he had just given himself away. Marek chooses not to push. “So then when are you coming home? It’s cold without you here.”

Makoa pulled the phone back again and switched to Solace’s weather, answering no when asked if he was doing so. “It’s the middle of summer in our region,” He responded, “You want cold? Come to Talos if you want to see cold.”

“I miss being warm.”

“You complain that I overheat the bed.”

“Then, I guess I miss being sweaty.”

“...I don’t know what you’re trying to-”

“Yes, you do.” He was grinning. Makoa couldn’t see him but his voice, it always gave it away. He wanted you to know he was entertained, especially if it was at your expense.

Makoa sat up slightly, speaking through his teeth. “Damn it, Marek, you know they record these!”

“Then whoever’s listening can consider this an invitation!”

Makoa coughed again and this time, devolved into laughter. “Why are you like this?”

“You wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t,” Marek answered so pointedly, Makoa knew not to take it too seriously.

“So talk to me,” Makoa said, “What’s been going on back home? How is everyone?”

Marek starts a rundown, answering as if he were reading from a list. More like he’s wanted to talk it over with him for a while. Makoa’s parents were fine and in good health. His father’s prosthetic was still working well. The old man was even asking Marek to remove the limitations that curbed how much force the thing can exert, so he could be stronger. He hasn’t done it. Makoa’s mom got to him first.

Makoa said nothing, closing his eyes and just letting the rumble of his husband’s voice flow through his ears and bounce around in his head, pushing out every other thought that made his shoulders tighten and his heart thud in his throat.

“What’s wrong, Makoa?”

The question was sudden and Makoa’s eyes popped open. “What makes you think something’s wrong?” He asks.

“You’re only ever this quiet when something’s bothering you.”

They’ve had this argument enough times. Marek correctly assumes his bad mood, Makoa instinctively moves to deny, voices get raised, tempers begin to heat up, maybe someone needs to simply not be in the same room as the other for a little while. And they’d both spend that alone time, angry with themselves for letting it go that far.

Makoa wouldn’t let it today, no matter how much the voice in the back of his mind, the one that always made sure he’d never forget that he nearly got his father killed, was demanding that he remain silent. That he stop burdening others with himself. That this wasn’t Marek’s business. This wasn’t Marek’s problem and that he was the worst husband in the world for trying to make it so.

“I don’t know, babe,” he finally forces out, “Just...woke up like this.”

“Bad dreams?” Marek’s voice had gone just as soft. They both still thought about the accident.

Makoa growled. “No. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” he said, “Haven’t been able to shake it off all day. But I’ve got a free day tomorrow.”

“Use it, Mak,” Marek told him, “Take a break. The world won’t break in two without you and a roll of duct tape around to keep it together for a while.”

Makoa promised that he would. “Did talking help?” Marek asked, gentler than Makoa often felt he deserved.

It did. It always did. He’d never understand why he continued to avoid it when so many of his problems could be solved just by talking it out. With his husband or with anyone.

But talking was never really the problem. Neither was finding someone to listen. It was convincing himself that he should talk about it. Convincing himself that they would listen and that whoever they were wouldn’t think less of him for doing so.

“Hey, Makoa, I’ve got an important call I gotta make soon. I can call back, if you still need me.”

“No,” Makoa said, “No, I’m fine. We can talk tomorrow. I’ll...I’ll take it easy today.”

“You do that. And…” He seemed to hesitate. “Thanks, Makoa. For reaching out. I know it's hard.”

Makoa swallowed and knew it could be heard. “Sometimes,” he admits, “But it's preferable. To the alternative, I mean.”

“Alternative?”

“Us arguing over it,” he explains solemnly, “It’s never worth it.”

“Really? I kinda like the arguments.”

Makoa sits up a bit, eyes narrowed. “Why…”

“Well, I mean, not the actual arguing, of course.” There was that smile in his voice again. “But...you know...given how they tend to end…”

“Given how they tend to…” So many memories came flooding back, of earlier years and hotter tempers and Makoa’s face burned like fire. “Didn’t I just tell you they were listening?!”

“Yeah, and I couldn’t have made it clearer that I didn’t care,” he said, so clearly proud of getting the reaction he wanted. “Stoke those fires, big guy. I’ll get the bed frame reinforced.”

The loudest laugh Makoa had made all day tore its way past his lips, echoing through the room, maybe even catching the attention of people on the outside and it felt good to do so. When he finally comes down, he realizes that the call had cut. He pulled back the phone and stared at the screen.

A recent picture; one of the two of them, at some fancy suit-and-tie party, during a moment they thought themselves alone. It had been a long night and they had been resting on a bench outside, away from the music and the talking and other people. Makoa was down on his back, strewn across the bench with a leg dangling off the side. His head had been resting on Marek’s thigh while Marek’s hand was placed square across his chest, firm and almost protective. His other was hidden behind the bench, holding a bottle of wine he had managed to pilfer, an act that got them both lectured the next morning.

It had annoyed him at first. Not the lecture, he didn’t bother listening to it. But that he had found the image in magazines and various entertainment sites. That such a private moment had been caught and spread around. Now, he was still annoyed but he was glad to have it. It told him, showed him even, that he didn’t have to be strong all the time. He had people in his life who would pick him up when he fell and would carry him if he needed them to. It was a reminder; a lesson.

Now if only he was the type to learn lessons.

It was dark by the time he had torn his attention away from his phone and the memories saved within them. The sun went down so quickly on this side of the planet, it was no wonder Bloodhound moved around as much as they did at night. It had been a bad day, there was no shame in admitting and acknowledging that. While he could salvage it and improve upon it somewhat, it was too late to fix it in its entirety, so his best choice was simply to try and do better tomorrow.

He’d start by seeking out Ajay, find a way to make up for his behavior today. She was never the vindictive type but she could fake it, feigning hurt feelings in the hopes of getting a free meal out of him or two. Witt will try the same stunt and Makoa felt bad enough to let him get away with it.

Then he’d start planning some time off. He needed to go home. He missed being held. He missed being warm.

* * *

Four teams in the same area, Makoa thought Capital City had been empty but now he was thinking himself to be an idiot. Capital City was _never_ empty. Now he was separated from his team, devoid of shields, low on health and ammo, running from the storm of bullets flying over and around his head.

With such distractions, he couldn’t really be blamed for failing to inspect every little corner before he turned it. Regardless of blame, he suffered for it. The door he shoved his way through set off a gas trap, placed just out of sight of the glass. The surprise had him drawing in a lungful of air and he paid for that too, with watery eyes and a throat that burned worse than the deepest pits of hell itself.

The choking had him stumbling but the bullet that tore its way through his shieldless leg was what put him on the ground. Pathfinder was nowhere to be found but Ajay was near. Not near enough, he realized, as Caustic’s heavy, booted footsteps stomped their way up from behind him.

“ _Keep ya head down, Gibby. I’m on my way.”_

Ajay was already in sight, shieldless herself and sprinting her way back to him. The air left his lungs again and his teeth pressed tightly together, both in pain and panic. Already, he was verbally tearing himself a new one. He brought them here. He got them in the middle of this. Now he was going to have to sit there and watch as someone got hurt for him. Again.

Makoa twisted on the ground to see Caustic lift up the massive gun he had used to bring Makoa down. With a yell, Ajay dropped into a slide across the pavement, throwing D.O.C. forward just before the lead began to fly. One bullet makes it past just before her shield comes up and she curses as it grazes her shoulder. Still, she was over him, one hand on his chest to hold him down and the other pulling the syringe from her pack.

Caustic’s dark laugh devolves into a growl. He lowered the gun, taking the first step forward into a run.

The first and the only. The door Makoa had tried to escape through burst open. Caustic lurched forward with a grunt and was suddenly yanked backwards, outraged yelling cut off sharply by blows and gunfire as soon as he disappeared through the double doors.

“Up, up, up,” Ajay ordered, taking hold of his hand in both of hers and hauling him to his feet. The doors behind them are thrown open again. Pathfinder comes skipping out, the sight of a blue deathbox and a broad figure slumped against the wall next to it visible for less than a second. Pathfinder stows his weapon and rushes to get to Makoa’s other side, taking his arm and practically carrying him forward.

Familiar shame wells up inside of him. But Pathfinder is reassuring him that he’s got him, Ajay is pulling out her drone again, letting him know that she’ll be taking drinks with that meal she was promised and Makoa finds himself viciously beating the shame back down. There was none to be had here.

They pull him into the safety of another building, far enough away from the fighting still going on but close enough for them to pick off the survivors later and let him down against the wall. D.O.C’s tendril attaches to his side while Pathfinder lets drop the batteries Caustic no longer needed and for the first time in what felt like years, Makoa relaxed. “Thank you, my bruddahs.”

The bright pink, heart-eyed face blinked across Pathfinder’s chest. “You’re welcome. I love you too!” he says, making Ajay start laughing and leaving Makoa just a bit at a loss for words; the second time that’s happened.

Pathfinder has his hand up in the air now, waiting and Ajay was still giggling at them. Makoa pushes past the strain and the soreness in his side, bringing his own hand up to meet him halfway, with a grin on his lips and a smile in his eyes.

  
  
  



End file.
